


The Other Side

by jesuisfarouche



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-07
Updated: 2013-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-28 13:14:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/674792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jesuisfarouche/pseuds/jesuisfarouche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean Prouvaire was a prisoner. His captors far outnumbered him and escape was impossible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Other Side

Though he had thought of his own death often in the past few days, he never even imagined it could possibly come about like this.

Jean Prouvaire was a prisoner. His captors far outnumbered him and escape was impossible. There he knelt on the other side of the barricade, hands bound behind him with a short length of rope.

The other side of the barricade. How terrifying it had been to him, nestled safe with his back to the Corinth. Jehan had almost forgotten there was an entire city beyond their fortress. At the time it was only them, and the Corinth, and the little length of the street in front of the barricade. Beyond that there was only black. He had peered out into that darkness and seen only the faint reflection of their torch on the bayonets lurking there—“metallic threads, fine as needles.” He had been mesmerized, captivated, utterly horrified all at once.

Everything had happened so quickly Jehan wasn’t sure if he was remembering it right or if his mind was filling in the gaps for him. It all seemed too terrible to really be true. His one shot had hit one of the National Guard in the stomach, and he reached for another cartridge to begin to reload but hesitated. His eyes were fixed on that dying man and the blood that escaped from where the bullet passed through him. Jehan couldn’t look away.

He had fired shots before, but into the darkness outside the barricade. He had not seen if any of his bullets had entered flesh, if any ball from his musket had taken a life. Now that they were closer however he was doused with the cold realization that a man was dead by his hand, and possibly more. A chill had washed down him, like icy water poured over his head, down his back and into the pit of his stomach. It was then he felt a hand on his arm.

He supposed it was Courfeyrac who had grabbed him, as Courfeyrac had been at his side just a moment ago. Jehan had turned his head, expected to see wild green eyes and auburn curls and the friendliest face he had ever known, but he didn’t see anything. He felt only shock, and saw only dirt, and it took him a moment to realize that he had been punched right in his jaw. He kicked out, hit and fought and yelled but now it was two hands grabbing him, now four. They dragged him away from the Corinth towards that awful place beyond safety. He cried out for Courfeyrac but could not see him.

He didn’t remember what exactly had transpired after that. He knew that he had put up as much of a fight as he could, but he had always been a little thing, though fierce. Jehan’s strength was in words and thoughts and bravery, not physical feats, and though he had struggled against the hands that pulled him further away from his friends and from safety, he was no match for a blow to the head that filled his vision with stars.

Stars. They really were quite lovely. Had he been in any other position he would muse on them, compose verses in his head, think on the colors and the shapes that he saw before his eyes. But eventually they faded and a dull throb of pain replaced them. Something hot and sticky ran down his forehead and stung his eye.

And now here he was. There was still fighting going on but it seemed very far away. He knelt, bound, near the wall in a little alcove just off the street. The soldiers had left him there alone but stood some feet away from him. They talked in hushed tones, glancing back at him every so often, before one nodded and walked towards him.

For a moment Jehan thought he might cry, but he did not.

The Guard lifted his hand and brought the back of it across Jehan’s face. He saw those lovely stars, but only for a fleeting moment. The Guard asked him a question, but Jehan did not hear it.

Another smack to the face, on the opposite side. Jehan looked up at the man and saw him wipe his hand on the front of his uniform. Red streaked the fabric there. Jehan’s red. His blood.

“How much ammunition do you have stockpiled?” the Guard repeated. Jehan only shook his head. In all honesty he did not know. Courfeyrac knew these things but he kept them from Jehan.

_“You do not have to protect me like this, you know. I am not a child.”_

_“_ Mon coeur _.” The slightest brush of fingertips on Jehan’s cheek. “I do not wish to frighten you.”_

_“I am not frightened.”_

_"Then nor am I."  
_

Wild green eyes and auburn curls. Jehan allowed himself a smile.

“You will give us the names of your fellow conspirators and your allies or you will be shot.”

Emboldened by the certainty of death – for he could never betray his friends – Jehan looked straight into the Guard’s eyes and spat on the ground.

The man’s mouth furrowed into a line and he nodded. He walked away and returned shortly after with four men with rifles.

Jehan gritted his teeth. He was afraid but he would not show it.

“Take aim.”

Terror seized him deeply in his chest. He was about to shudder but suddenly found himself crying out instead, “Vive la France!” He let a short laugh escape his lips. Eyes bright, face lit up by intrepidity. “Long live France! Long live the future!”

He heard the report. He felt the heat of the bullets as they struck him. A fleeting thought of wild green eyes and auburn curls, and he departed.


End file.
